Seeing The Red Again
by Catherine Ann Wynn
Summary: The case may be over, but the memories remain...
1. Chapter 1

I've been scrubbing my hands for an hour. Why won't the blood come off?

My skin is red. I don't know if it's because of the incessant scrubbing or because I'm failing at the task.

It was everywhere. It's everywhere. I never knew so much blood could come from one person. Applying pressure did nothing to slow its flow. It oozed through my fingers as it left her body for good.

_There's nothing you could do. The knife nicked her jugular. She was a goner the second the blade made contact_.

That's a lie. She wasn't a goner that second. In fact, it took two minutes for the last of her life to leave her body. Two minutes and thirty six seconds to be exact. For two minutes and thirty six seconds, she laid on that filthy bathroom floor littered with discarded paper towels and who knows what else, surrounded by the blood that was flooding out of her body.

Her skin paled. Her breath shortened. Shallowed.

For the last two minutes and thirty six seconds of her life, her eyes stared up at me, pleading for me to do something. Anything. Save her.

Her last conscious thought was that I failed her.

I failed.

I failed her. Now, she's on a slab in the morgue and waiting for someone to claim her. They'll place her in a box and bury her six feet under, never to be heard from again.

I can't get her eyes out of my head. The vividness of her cobalt eyes dulled every second her life was flowing out of her. She died with her eyes wide open, knowing what was happening to her and not being able to do a single thing to stop it.

The ultimate victim: couldn't have fought back even if she tried.

No amount of scrubbing will ever erase that.


	2. Chapter 2

Soon, my hair will no longer be matted by the blood that coats it. My fingernails will no longer be stained crimson.

Until the day I die, the last two minutes and thirty six seconds of her life will haunt me. No soap and water will cure that.

I've given the best years of my life protecting victims. I know there are many who have better lives now because I was able to help them, but they're not the one who leaves an impact.

The battered wives who are still with their abusive husbands. The little girl still in the custody of her bastard of a father who's been raping her for as far back as she can remember.

The victim whose rapist was never caught.

The victim whose rapist was caught but never charged.

The victim whose rapist was caught but never convicted.

They needed me to help them. They needed me to save them.

I failed them all.

This isn't the first time I've found myself in my cramped shower having to wash what is left of someone I've seen die off of my body. Not the second time either. Or the third.

When around me, people seem to drop like flies.

GSWs. Stabbed. Slashed. Not many people can cop to seeing two people bleed out from a slit throat within two calendar years.

I can. Lucky me.

Even days later, it still won't wash off. No amount of home remedies do anything more than the crimson remains from other people's dying bodies fade slightly.

It never goes away. Not really. People may not notice anything different about me, but it's still there. Every spot of brain matter ever to land on me. Every speck of blood I've picked up along the way. It doesn't appear on the UV light that shines on crime scenes, but it's there. It's all there, hanging onto me. My olive skin becomes grimy with more than enough flaws and scars on my own accord to need anyone else on me too.

It hurts now. My skin. But I can't stop. I'm not clean yet. My fingers are now wrinkled and throbbing from chocking my loofah sponge with a vice-like grip, but I can't stop. I'm not clean yet.

I hear a key in my lock. Then I hear a _knock, knock, knock_. My deadbolt is on. Opening the door means getting out of the shower before I'm clean and I can't do that.

You kick my door in. Not the first time this has happened. You'll replace it easily enough. Mutter something about not buying another door with a deadbolt on it, but knowing I won't feel safe enough to stay here otherwise, you'll relent, telling me not to use it if you're not here.

When you're here, I don't need to use it. You keep me safe. You know this.

It's when you're not here that the bad things happen.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters nor do I work for the people that do. An idea popped into my head and I let it lead me. I hope you enjoy the journey...

Every time. Without fail. When you said you'd be gone for a week, I knew something would happen. It always does. I never would've guessed it would be this bad, but I couldn't shake the eerie feeling of something going down until it did. Then again, if I was able to pinpoint what would happen ahead of time, there'd be no crime. We'd have no jobs.

Now that I think about it though, I'd gladly be unemployed if it meant people were no longer hurting each other.

Since that'll never happen, my job is safe until I finally crack up, burn out or fall in the line.

I don't know how it'll end; just that it will. Don't know when either. Should've left years ago. Even though I go back every day, I'm never quite ready for the fresh hell that awaits me.

You shut the door, stifling in a curse when you realize it won't close all the way now that you've kicked it in again. Call the super. Explain the situation. Show him your badge. It'll be fixed tonight.

Your keys land on the table by the now-disabled door. Your footsteps become lighter as you toe off your shoes. You lose your belt before you reach my bedroom. You call my name, looking for me like you don't know where I am or what I'm doing already.

You see my reddened body as soon as you push the bathroom door open. You stare at me for a moment. I don't know whether it's because of how I look right now or because you're a man looking at a naked woman. I can never tell with you. All these years we've known each other and I still can't read you as well as you can read me.

Never did I imagine that I could have less to hide than someone else. Not after everything that happened to me growing up. Then I think about everything you've gone through. You're not supposed to compare crappy childhoods, but compared to yours, I enjoyed picturesque formative years.

After the nostalgia of seeing my naked body passes, you sigh and grab my towel. You open my shower door and turn off the water, wrapping me in the towel after prying my loofah away from me.

"I can't stop yet. I'm not clean," I tell you.

"You're okay," you respond, kissing my temple as you wrap a second towel around my damp hair.

_No I'm not. I'm not okay. I'll never tell you or anyone else this, but I'm not okay. _Somehow, you sense this, running one hand down my arm as your other one is busy towel drying my hair.

"I brought take out. Your favorite," you say like I'm hungry. Like I can eat after what I saw today.

_But how would you know what I saw? You weren't here_. I sit and watch as you eat. We're in a standoff. Will be until you give me my glass of Merlot back. I will sit here, all night, letting this food get cold until I get my way. You know how stubborn I can be.

Then again, you can be a jackass too when you want to be.

Hence, the standoff.

We look at each other, waiting for the other to crack first. Won't be me. Not tonight. I earned this glass. This bottle.

I haven't spoken to you since throwing those insults at you. They rolled right off of you like you were coated in Teflon, but I know you're not. I wonder when this night will come back to bite me. It always does with you. You hold onto every slight. Every hurt. I've done both.

I don't touch the food you brought for me. I don't get to have any wine, but you can't force a morsel into my mouth. I'm not sure if this is a victory or not.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm wide awake in bed. You lie beside me, sleeping as soundly as someone in our field can ever hope to muster.

I trace the scars on your chest. Not enough to wake you up or even cause you to stir; just enough to feel the unevenness of what was once smooth skin. The slashes were caused by a former colleague seeking the attention he never received. The slashes were caused because I couldn't reach you in enough time to warn you and stop him. Because I failed you.

_You finding me when you did is why I'm alive now_, you've told me too many times to count.

_My taking so long to put two and two together put your life in jeopardy_. Again, I never bother to add. It's understood.

My fingers move from the slashes on your chest to the two wounds near your shoulder, where you were shot the second time around. My coming to see you when you were undercover and getting caught by the perp you were shadowing caused these.

I wasn't in the courtroom with you when you got shot in the arm. I was supposed to be. For the life of me, I can't even remember why I wasn't there, looking back on it now.

Doesn't matter in the end; even when I'm not around, I'm getting you hurt. But it's not just you; it's everyone.

The stakeout that went south. Two civilians were killed and we almost lost a colleague too after I couldn't get back to the store in time. Munch was in the courtroom with you when you got shot. Ryan is dead because I wasn't able to piece together Stuckey's crime wave in time.

Melinda…Alex…Casey…we almost lost them all. I was there, always around; just not good enough to keep them safe. I couldn't do my job. The motto is to serve and protect; who am I protecting?

They have Patron Saints protecting people from just about everything now. Except for me. Maybe they can find someone. Pray really hard to Saint Someone or the Other and they'll protect all of you from me.

You're the resident Catholic. Look into that for me if you ever get some free time.

My stomach begins to groan, starved for me to provide it some nourishment. This would be about the time I sneak out of bed and have the wine you insisted on banning me from. You poured the bottle into the sink as you cleaned up from dinner.

Bastard. You know the only places that sell alcohol are closed. Even in New York City, the city that never sleeps, has to sleep sometime. Apparently, 2:47 AM is that time for everyone except for me.

Through the light that streams in from the window, I see red.

Your blood. Her blood. His blood; they're on my hands again.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters nor do I work for the people that do. An idea popped into my head and I let it lead me. I hope you enjoy the journey...

A/N: One more chapter of sadness...after all, light shines the brightest right after darkness...

I slip out of bed without you noticing and head for the kitchen. I don't go to the bathroom; my scrubbing will wake you up and there are too many things keeping you awake at night for me to add to your list.

I've learned that simple hand washing doesn't do. I've taken to using a Brilo pad to get the stains out. It works for dishes, it should work for me.

Why doesn't it work for me?

My skin screams for mercy that I can't give.

I live in fear someone will find me out, realize what pain I've caused other people. How badly I've hurt each and every single one of them.

I swear I would never be like her, my mother. Swore I'd never hurt anyone.

I lied. I've hurt everyone. Meaning to or not makes no difference; the end result is all that matters.

My body count is astonishing. Not my official kill count, which still rests at two even after all these years. I mean the list that matters, how many people are dead because of me, has many more names.

As I purify my skin, I stare at a Christmas card I received last year. From a victim I helped. She's doing well. In college. Studying Criminal Justice. She wants to be just like me when everything is said and done.

Be nothing like me, I want to tell her. Be as little like me as humanly possible.

Her card and the others don't leave a dent. Not as long as the ones who will never write me a card and those who can't remain in my memory.

I don't hear you coming into the kitchen. The lights flickering on barely register.

"You won't have any skin left if you keep doing that." The sleep in your whisper is deep. You reach around me and turn off the water. "Come back to bed, baby."

"I will," I promise you. "As soon as I get it all off."

A/N: (2/6/13)-Thank you guys so much for reading. You've really made my first attempt at posting a story of mine a wonderful experience. This story may be over, but the journey isn't. I hope to post something new soon. Thanks again for reading.


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